Archive for March, 2011

Dustin Test

Thursday, March 10th, 2011

Dustin Test

Surly Woman Mystery; Mardis Gras Turnaround

Thursday, March 10th, 2011

So.  Surly women will be the death of me. In the history of my life, when my ADHD loonyness encounters one or more surly women, the following warning sign needs to be waved:
 “STEP AWAY FROM THE WOMAN. DO NOT SPEAK TO, LOOK CROSSWAYS AT, OR TOUCH THE WOMAN. ENGAGE WOMAN AT HIGH PERSONAL RISK.”
 I am a lover of women, both from the philosophical and sexual perspectives. I am firmly convinced that women are stronger, smarter and more honest than men. I think women are better people than men. Just as a general rule.
 As a rule, if I confronted 1,000 people, half men and half women, and I was required to  choose one person from the lot to spend eternity with, it would be one of the women. Even if you tell me that sex was not a part of eternity, I’d still choose a woman.
 Streaker Jones is my life-long best friend and we have spent countless hours together doing an endless variety of things. He and I enjoy each other’s company and we get together often. But even with us having multiple business endeavors together, I don’t see him but a few hours a week.
 Men just don’t hold my attentions the way a woman can. I think Streaker Jones said it best when he said, “Mooner, you wear me out.”
 See what I mean? Men just lack the patience for dealing with another man. Hell, for that matter I can hardly stand myself sometimes. And I work hard to be a good man.
 Women are just better people than men.
 Until they become surly.
 I have some bloggie buddies who I have grown fond of and they talk about being surly, as women. That would be Reckmonster and Thundercat832. OK, wait a minute. The voice of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell is inside my mind and she’s scolding me like when I was back to seventh grade. “Mooner,” she’s saying, “you have managed to mangle God’s chosen language eight ways from Sunday School in a thirteen-word sentence.”
 If I gave a shit, I’d go back and use “whom” and restructure my bloggie buddies sentence to eliminate the dangling participle. But like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Who, whose, whom and who’s. I don’t give a hoot owl’s smelly fart, just tell me who done it.”
 It never pays to attempt a correction to Gram’s fractured English. Makes her surly.
 But like I was telling you, a surly woman can be a bitch. Two surly women are a double hand-full. Oh for shitsakes, wouldn’t two surly women be a hands-full? Mrs. Browningwell was our teacher for several classes and for several years. She is married to Pastor Browingwell, the main preacher dude at Gram and Mother’s Baptist church. The self same Baptist church wherein I was raised. I can’t tell you too much here since it is book fodder, but Leticia Browningwell was one surly Baptist bitch.
 Anyway, so I managed to piss off the Squirt because I sent her to the garden to dig worms for the fishing trip I promised her, and then I forgot about her. I was consumed with problems here to my bloggie and she dug up a bushel basket of worms before I remembered her. By then it was too late to go fishing, so I dumped the basket of worms and covered them with Squirt’s freshly dug soil. A causal event creating one surly woman.
 Squirt was pissed at me.
 That was Monday, and last night Squirt and I took SAC Ellen down to Sixth Street for the big Mardis Gras festivities. Austin gives good Mardis Gras and SAC Ellen has been unable to attend as a participant until this year. She’s been to the celebrations before, but as a paid observer for the US Department of Homeland Security.
 I guess terrorists like to dress up and pretend to have a good time.
 Have you noticed how focused this thought train has been? No digressions and but a few knots in the storyline. My ADHD seems well-checked. I think that might be due to my having saved the day last night down to Sixth Street. The problem started when we picked SAC Ellen up at her place and she got in the car. Squirt sat surly in the back seat and SAC Ellen’s womens’ intuition zeroed in like the radar on a heat-seeking missile.
 I think I might have mangled that metaphor, but you catch my drift. And why don’t we say, “mis-syle?” Anyway, Squirt barely mumbles a hello when my date got seated in the car, and when I was asked why Squirt was surly, I explained. I gave a full and complete story of my misdeeds.
 So, now I’m driving down to find a place to park so we can celebrate Mardis Gras in the company of two surly women. Obviously, surly womanhood is a contagious disease. The two of them start comparing stories as to precisely why I, Mooner Johnson, am such an asshole. Since I had trouble finding suitable parking, we had time for numerous stories.
 I guess I really am a total inappropriate and crazy asshole. That was the final vote, and unanimous at that. I might have voted “nay”, but decided the risk outweighed my hoped-for reward, poontanger. My longterm goal for the night was to get some sexing with the SACster.
 Which brings us to the climax of my story. The goal of any Mardis Gras party is to collect beads. Beads are thrown to people who make silly displays of themselves, like when a woman flashes her titties. Since SAC Ellen was required to wear her her bullet-protective vest, those luscious orbs remained reserved for my eyes alone.
 The Squirt has got eight wonderful little titties and she’ll flash them just for shits-and-grins, and in any company. Except for when she’s surly.
 So, we walked one length of the party route and did it bead-less. But I was prepared. When we got to the balcony of the Driscoll Hotel, I demonstrated why I’m called Mooner to the crowd. I had Ingrid pluck and dye my butt hair into a picture of the Pope on one cheek and Queen Elizabeth on the other. As a joke, I switched their headgear and had the Pope in a crown and the other Queen wore the silly Pope cap.
 I climbed the light pole on the corner, dropped my pants to my ankles and flashed a big moon show I called, “Two Queens for the price of one.”
 Beads flew from every direction, raining down from the balcony and flying from people on the street. I was careful to spin myself on the light pole to provide a 360-degree viewing of the show. Maybe someone will post a video, I don’t know.
 When I climbed down I was greeted by two no longer surly women covered in beads. SAC Ellen ringed Squirt’s wiener dog body with what must have been a hundred strings. My date had so many on her own neck that she looked like a Ubangi princess.
 Ugh. I just realized that this was going to be a lesson about how surly women have almost ruined my life and now it has become a feel good dealie. Since I got some poontang in the end, this posting has become a best plan laid. You know, the moral of the story boosted my morale.
 Drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

Senator Hutchison Raises Politi-speak To New Levels; FRP

Tuesday, March 8th, 2011

 

So. First, I spoke with my web design guy, Dustin, and he’s going to fix things here on Thursday. Dustin is the guy who designed my site and he says he can fix the problems without killing it first and starting over. Bear with me two more days and we’ll get shit straight.

Next, Texas US Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison has set a new mark for political doublespeak. In an effort to get some attention away from Prick Perry, our esteemed governor, Miz Hutchison posted an opinion in today’s Austin American Statesman titled, “Cutting government spending is fiscally responsible”.

It isn’t the silly title of her Op-Ed that caught my attention even though its obviousness is silly. And while I read her little ditty cover-to-cover, the paper tried to save me the effort by windowing the crux of the matter. To quote the Hutchster:

“I support cutting discretionary spending while carefully prioritizing investment in areas of strategic national importance. … While lawmakers in Congress continue to debate a sustainable federal budget. I am calling for immediate congressional action to find cost savings.”

Holy fucking shit, was that insightful, riveting rhetoric. Never has so much intellect been so well contained with careful word craft. I need Squatlo to dissect that one and spoon feed it to me in chewable bites. And why do we capitalize Congress but not congressional? Same congregation of numb-nuts each way.

Look, I’m college educated, well read and can walk and chew gum simultaneously, but that one is a classic. I know that liberal politicians say silly shit all the time, but this one just slays me.

Uh, Senator Huckleberry, other than cuts to health care, education, Social Security and Planned Parenthood, precisely what cuts do you have in mind? You yak about how you went to Secretary Gates about cutting his budget for support bases for our stupid military operations across the globe, but where the fuck is your request to end the silly fucking military operations?

Ugh. This is so silly that you managed to take my mind off my CAPTCHA problems here to my bloggie. So, “Thanks for the diversion, Senator.”

After spacing out and forgetting Squirt was digging worms for our planned fishing trip yesterday, the little nearly-my-puppy is still pissed. Every time I get near her she calls me an asshole. Early this morning when I fed her breakfast, her first words to me were, “Kont gat, trou du cul, poll asal, asno butas, ano, Arschloch, ass lyuk, … shiro punda!”

“Wow,” I replied. “You just called me asshole in seven different languages. But why not Spanish?”

Squirt eyed me suspiciously. “Culo agujero!”

I had to ask.

I talked her into making a trip to the animal shelter to see if any cats or kittens wanted to adopt us. Finding a cat for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is the one remaining condition to mt adoption of the Squirt. We looked at maybe fifty cats and got nothing more than cold shoulders and spits with hisses.

I don’t get the entire cat thingie. But I guess I don’t need to as long as I can get one to adopt me.

Squirt hasn’t called me an asshole for the last thirty minutes so I’m ready to celebrate with a cold Carta Blanca beer. Later, we’re picking SAC Ellen up to go down to Sixth Street to party for Mardis Gras. Austin has a great Mardis Gras party downtown.

Manana, y’all.

I Hate Computers; Self Flaggalation Is No Fun

Monday, March 7th, 2011

 

So. I fucking hate computers. What else can I say to better express my relationship with modern technologies?

I know I have ADHD, I know that I’m a hunt-and-peck typist, I know I’m a scatter-brained fuckwad, and I know I make more wrong choices than a three dollar hooker.

But seriously, what the fuck is up with my Word Press bloggie? What … the… FUCK?

I had my computer guy come in and delete the CAPTCHA dealie from my bloggie in the altogether. No more obstacle courses to run in order to post a comment, right?

Within one minute of removing the CAPTCHA traps, I get a comment posted by one of the assholes responsible for my installation of the system in the first place. Enlightened Spirit is a right-wing Christian bigot and all-around Catholic shitball. Whenever I posted anything about His Royal Highness the Pope or abortion, or anytime I suggested that religious revisionist history is inappropriate for public school textbooks, Miz Spirit was all up my ass with excerpts from press kits and silly scriptural quotes and book/verse numbers.

Oh yes, and threats and immature slanders.

I blocked her and the others of her ilk, and I scrubbed my website clean of their poison. I installed the CAPTCHA widget for Word Press from hell in an effort to keep them out and force a person to have at least a moderate intellect to make a comment.

That, of course blew up in my face. First, one or several of the ilks (ilksters?) whom I had banned, cyber attacked my bloggie and crashed it. I had these Trojan Horse and black widow spider bugs everywhere.

So we cleaned that mess and added an additional layer of hooey to the yahoo and made it almost impossible to post a comment. When Squatlo can’t fight his way through a CAPTCHA screen that looks like someone wrote Greek code by pissing in the snow, you know your system is, at least remotely, off-putting.

So, we scrubbed some more and tweaked even more and made it to where you could send a comment through for mediation, but then it would never post to the bloggie after approval.

Ugh.

So today, I had my guy kill my cache dealie and give everyone direct access. That’s how that silly bitch Enlightened Spirit got through. I think she’s stalking me. Maybe she’s not getting satisfied by her has-to-be weak-Willy husband. I’m guessing she wants her some Mooner but is afraid to ask. Like a twelve-year-old girl in junior high, she picks and pokes rather than say, “Will you play doctor with me?”

Anyway, so I’m all proud and shit at letting go of all that control and just let people comment at will. Then I’ll take all my extra time to moderate and weed out the dumb shit and threats. I tested it from an outside computer and no problems.

Right, no problems. Squatlo still gets CAPTCHA shit by Enlightened Spirit doesn’t, I can’t get my replies to comments to post, it takes me three minutes to get my admin page to open, and I’m ready to rip my tongue out with a pair of pliars.

It’s a gorgeous day and I promised the Squirt I’d take her fishing. We were scheduled to leave three hours ago, so I told her to go out to the garden and dig up some worms. I said, “Why don’t you go dig us some worms, little Missy, and I’ll be right there.”

“Como muchos guisanos do you want, Bwana Mooner?”

“I don’t know Sweet Pea. Just dig until you think we have enough,” I told her.

At least I won’t need to plow the half-acre she dug up. But she’s too tired to go fishing and she’s pissed that I but her bushel of worms back in the ground.

“Asshole,” Squirt said when I dumped the wooden basket over. “Giant flaming asshole.”

She’s right, of course, but it isn’t my fault. I’m going to let her nap for a few hours and the wake her up with a cold Carta Blanca beer to chase the musties from her sleepy mouth. I taught her to gargle and she loves my beer. Multi-tasking is my middle name.

Please fight your way through the disaster that is my website folks. I’m trying. Manana, y’all.

Special Love note to the Reckmonster. I would never leave you just because your website rejected me. I’ll stalk you like Enlightened Spirit stalks me if you go away.

Zeig Freud! My Cognitive Behaviors Were Punished

Saturday, March 5th, 2011

 

So. Let me start this bloggie posting by making the following disclaimer:

*****

“I am not a licensed, trained physician nor am I a highly educated and skilled social worker with mad psycho therapeutic skills. I have no relevant classroom training save and except college psychology courses (taken as part of my courtship of the lovely Samanta Ignatious Amorgeretti, aka Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson).

What I do have are: thirty years of usually intensive psycho analysis, numerous stays of various lengths at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, countless research projects and thousands of hours of conversation with psycho therapists.

No animals were harmed in the production of the following opinion.”

*****

OK, so let’s get to it, shall we?

I think that classical Freudian analytical psycho therapy is basically a big pile of dog shit.

There, I said it. “Arf, arf [sound of doggie grunts] {sound of doggie kicking grass and dirt and stuff over a fresh, smoldering pile} arf,” dog wags tail and looks expectantly at owner.

As commonly practiced on American society, Freudian analytical therapy is dog shit.

The reason I say this is that, IN MY PERSONAL OPINION, most therapists who utilize Heir Doctor Freud’s methodologies are using them to treat themselves in the guise of treating innocent patients.

Said another way, most psycho therapists are nut cases in their own rights and the nutty-most are the ones who practice longterm analytical therapies. What happens, again in my humble opinion, is one of those Alfred Hitchcock double twister plot thingies that I’ll call “reverse/inverse transference”.

Transference inversely reversed. Instead of the client (therapists call us “clients” except for when we’re “in hospital” at which time we become “patients”) taking on the therapist’s traits or falling in love with the therapist, the therapist falls in love with the client’s situation. Then the therapist attempts to heal him/herself through watching the client struggle through years of intensive and expensive sessions.

In their defense, analytical therapists will tell you that only when you delve deep-deep-deep into a client’s subconscious will you get to the “actual” cause of their troubles. They will tell you that you must slowly, carefully and painstakingly peel the layers of the client’s onion to expose and TALK TO DEATH any feelings that come up. They will tell you that their method is the only way any person can get well and that EVERY person needs to get well.

Bullshit! Sorry, dogshit! I need to maintain my literary consistencies.

Except for the exceptionally loony, longterm Freudian psycho therapy is good for nobody except the therapist. When I started my therapy sessions thirty years ago, Freud was the only real game in town. In my very first session, it was revealed that I felt my craziness was caused by the combination of having a killer case of the ADHD and the simple fact that I was raped by my Baptist Boy Scout leader as a child.

Flash forward to today and guess what my problems are?

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson traded in her Freudian slip for the cognitive approach years ago. She soon determined that helping crazy people adjust to life by working through problems is a far better treatment plan than reducing the client to his primal scream stage. We don’t all need to regress all the way back into the womb to figure out why we’re nuts. Every parent stares their babies naked body for shitsakes. Babies are naked for a very large portion of the time.

But therapists who still cling to Freud’s now archaic practice methods do so with tenacity. They look down their noses at cognitive behavioral therapists. Cognitive behavior therapists help clients identify thoughts and actions that make them feel badly or act badly, and then guide them through options to adjust thinking and changes habits.

Now you might be asking, “Mooner, my man, what is up with this?”

“Simple,” I say. “Last night at dinner I got slapped by an analytical therapist.”

No need to detail it, but I got fed up with this nice lady’s long-winded verbal tribute to Ziggy Freud. At Carta Blanca beer number five I’d had a belly full of it. When the lady made a particularly stupid tribute, I jumped up, clicked my heels together, snapped-out a flat-palmed salute and exclaimed, “Zeig Freud, Zeig Freud, Zeig Freud!”

Likely, I needed the slap. Likelier still, she needs to read this. I happen to know that she is one of my many “closet readers”. Her husband told me.

Manana, y’all.

Hocus Pocus, I Got My Focus; Kurt Vonnegut At Fault

Friday, March 4th, 2011

 

So. I’ve had another Ah-ha! Moment, another epiphany if you will allow me a little literary latitude. I have uncovered the root causal impetus for my recent ADHD melt-down.

Starting last Friday night, a week ago, I started fritzing. Fritzing is when my normal jumble of thoughts and unfocused action/reaction responses to stimuli become super agitated. Imagine the million of so sperm hanging out in a man’s ball sack and nether regions when he has a sexual thought. All the little swimmers are down there in a state of high alertness, crammed together with little wiggle room for each.

If you looked at the little buggars through a microscope, you would see some activity and you could sense the pent-up tension, but most of the spermies are docile and but a few are agitated and seeking attention.

That’s the thoughts in my normal ADHD-addled brain. Like all of the many sperm (sperms?) in a nut sack, my thoughts are simultaneously abundant in population and with only several fighting for the attention of my focus.

Brain fritz is when the entire reservoir of my thoughts start pushing to the forefront of my conscious mind. Imagine of sack full of sperm after they just got the message to, “Prepare for launch!”

That would be my ADHD-addled brain on the fritz.

In a speech to her colleagues some years back, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson described my thoughts as follows, “In this particular adult male patient I can best describe my feelings as his therapist by telling you it is like working with a bathtub full of red wiggler worms. My attempts to find a tangible line of treatment is akin to identifying the fattest worm in the tub.”

Bitch.

But she’s right. Brain fritz is awful. Identifying it’s root causes is satisfying. And because last week’s episode of fritz was significant, having discovered the cause is most gratifying.

Last Friday, I picked up Kurt Vonnegut’s masterpiece Hocus Pocus. Since its first printing in 1990, I have read it maybe thirty times. My copy’s pages are stained and well worn from my readings.

Since 1990, I have had approximately thirty incidences of major league brain fritz. I didn’t put this together until last night when I picked up the book to start where I left off last Friday, when I went off the deep end.

I got maybe two sections into my rereading before my brain started misfiring. If you don’t know Hocus Pocus, Kurt uses a unique writing style wherein he compartmentalizes thoughts into segments– most short and some longer sections, and then he organizes the sections, which are segregated in the book.

The segments dance from subject-to-subject and bounce around in time. This book it written like I think. All helter-skelter and hocus pocus.

When I told Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about this in my regular therapy session, she says to me, she says, “Wow Mooner, now you know what it’s like for those of us who must put up with you.”

I told you she’s a bitch.

“Bitch,” I called her.

“Look, you are catching additional ADD from the book in the same way we catch ADHD from you. Your contagious ADHD is contagious to you.”

Then she starts laughing maniacally.

“Bitch.”

Basically, it seems that I’m allergic to myself when I encounter behavior patterns that mimic my brain. How fucking sick is that?

But I caught the problem early and knowing it was caught has limited damages. I’m feeling really good. Reckmonster is getting back into the dating scene and I want to help her. I think she needs to have all of her potential dates get on the Skype machine with me and do an interview. I need to assist her in weeding that garden.

Holy shit do I feel good. I’mma have myself a frosty cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Queen Of All Catholics Releases Jews; Antisemitism Now Officially Ended

Thursday, March 3rd, 2011

 

So. Let’s all say, “Hallelujah!”

“Hallelujah!”

Again, “Hallelujah!”

“Hallelujah!”

Incredible as it may seem, the entire Jewish race, I’m talking all Jewish people, have been pardoned of their guilt in the crucifixion of Jesus.

That’s right, folks, the Jews are no longer to be considered the killers of the Christ. Hallelujah!

In a stunning development, Pope Brokedick XVI, Queen of all Catholics, has cleared the Jewish people of their alleged complicity in the dastardly murder of Jesus. In his soon-to-be-published book, which shall go unnamed here so as to not spur any sales activity, the Popester has finally let the Jews off the hook for the dastardly deeds committed on one of their own those several thousand years ago.

This action ends a two-thousand year official policy. Holding the Jewish people responsible for the crucifixion of Jesus has been one of the stalwart tenants of the Catholic Church. The early implementation of the edict condemning Jews as “Jesus murderers” was the very origins of antisemitism. That’s right, the fucking Holy Roman Catholic Church invented antisemitism.

Surprised? You shouldn’t be. One of the problems with organizing a religion based upon the history of men is that the storytelling adds layers of embellishment. Back in the several hundred years between the time Jesus died, and until the first Catholics got together to devise a method to pillage and plunder the undefended masses worldwide, the actual facts of that entire dealie swelled with embellishments. Why wouldn’t we say “swoled” with embellishments?

Primary to the subject matter of this bloggie posting is the problems those early Catholics had with the central religiosity of starting a Christian religion. The foundation of all Christian religions is the belief that God sent his son, the Christ aka Jesus, to the earth to DIE ON THE CROSS in sacrifice for the sins of all earthlings.

Said another way, if Jesus had not been crucified, no Christians. Since God had preordained his son’s life in a step-by-step sequencing of events, all of which were in preparation for him to DIE ON THE CROSS, then his actual dying on the cross is God’s responsibility.

Now stay with me because the logic of many religions is slightly twisted, and untangling the logic strings can be confusing.

So, premise one is that it was God’s plan for his son to DIE ON THE CROSS. Premise two is that, try as I might, I can’t discover a way for any man– regardless of his dexterity, I can’t see how anybody could crucify himself.

I can see one man building a cross, you know harvest an appropriate tree and saw it to the proper dimensions, digging a hole and dropping it in, stacking rocks around the base and packing the dirt so the terrible thing will keep standing.

I can see a guy shimmy up to the platform with his hammer and spikes and leather tongs and shit lashed to his robe so he won’t drop them and have to shimmy down, then back up. I can see the guy set the thorny crown he made of wild blackberry vines on his own head. I can see this guy, an acrobat in the forerunner of the Cirque de Soleil, place his feet just right so that he can pound that first spike through that flesh, securing feet stably to the cross.

I can even see the guy, wincing in terrible pain, as he contorts his left hand to hold the second spike at his left wrist. His entire arm cramps to hold the spike in proper position while pressing the back of his wrist to the wooden cross member, and then twist to his left side (while both feet are nailed tight to the platform), and whack the spike to secure his left arm to the cross.

Yes sir, I can see all of that, as remarkable as it might sound.

But I absolutely cannot see him nailing his right wrist or palm to that wooden cross member. No fucking way. And that factual impossibility is why the Catholics started antisemitism all those years ago.

It’s hard to blame God for killing his own son. Even though filicide is the most basic truth behind Christianity, holding God accountable was impossible for the early Catholic rules writers.

So, they blamed the Jews.

I’ve been threatened in the past when making this point. If I have offended any of you Christians here, please ask yourself, “Why is this offensive?”

When your facts become fictionalized with fables, it’s impossible to write fact-based rules. Let me say that this particular Catholic Queen has done more enlightening things than all his predecessors combined. And for that, I say, “Hoist your Carta Blanca’s and join with me. Thank you Pope Benny Fifteen, and Hallelujah! Long live the Queen!”

Manana, y’all.

Forbidden Fruit Reprint; Why Mooner Tops Google Search

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011

 

So. It seems that many of what I’ll call “Bloggie Visitor Anomalies” (BVA’s) have been happening. Squatlo has reported that he has has spikes of more than 2,000 Korean visitors to his site in one day’s time, a BVA. When he evaluated the postings that drew the Korean visitors, Squat could find no tangible reason to attract Koreans as opposed to, say, aardvarks.

Isn’t aardvark a great word?

A buddy of mine here to Austin said that he wrote a story about his dying grandmother and the wishes she had for each of her offspring and their progeny. Within an hour of posting the bittersweet story of his Gram’s last wishes, his site was crashed with comments from porn site trackbacks and pingbacks. Another BVA.

He also could find no visible, tangible reason for the occurrence.

I have been getting significant middle European visitor spikes, BVA’s, to a story posted here in March of last year. One of my earliest postings, this story has attracted 80% of my total visitor traffic to this site. Since it was posted almost a million words ago, one of my faithful everyday readers asked me to post it again.

I shouldn’t do this because the story is in my new book and my Editorator is going to go apeshit. But I don’t really give a shit, so, here goes. This is the story that puts my website at the top of several Google searches. Reprinted from March 24, 2010, I give you:

Frobidden Fruit and How to be a Man; Sometimes it Hurts to be a Man”

So. Life is full of dichotomous situations. You know what I’m talking about- those times when you are damned if you are doing, and likewise damned for don’t-ing. I encountered one of those dichotomousses yesterday afternoon when I went over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum.

Maybe that should be “dichotomousi”.

I wanted to take advantage of their special on sweet Italian sausage so I drove over in Gram’s Ferrari. She needed my truck to deliver some mushroom juice to a new customer, and the weather was too nice to pass-up on the hot red sports car. Besides, Italian food- Italian car. I was making fresh tomato souga with basil and garlic and secret ingredients. Souga is Italian for sauce, kind of like salsa is Spanish for salsa. Dr. Sam I. Am taught me this recipe back when she was wife/psycho therapist and not just therapist.

Look, Whole Foods is my favorite grocery store, and likewise always will be. But for certain things, Sprouts is it for me. Like the stuff that I’m OK with in a non-organic state, like grapefruit.

So. I buy my groceries, and since I was there I figured I might as well accommodate myself and get the two-bags full that fit in the tiny backseat of Gram’s car, and go to leave. Wait- two bag fulls. It has to be “fulls.” As I was lifting my two bags from the shopping cart to hustle off to my ride, my eyes were captured by a woman walking into the store.

Said woman was dressed for exercising and looked well exercised. Her cheeks were rubied and fully-blushed and she had a misting of sweat on all of the exposed skin not covered by the tight Lycra skin that was her hot pink outfit.

Of course, it is possible that the “just exercised” part of her look was just for looks, and the cheeks were blushed with makeup and her sweaty mist was sprayed-on from an atomizer. In that part of town it’s maybe 60/40 either way.

Anyway, her hair had a sprinkling of gray, she was in great shape- not ripped and bulimic looking, just sleek and smooth. She had a pretty face and inviting eyes.

And there, doing the pocket Rumba, sat the plumpest, juiciest-looking most robust camel toe I have ever seen. I mean ever! This thing looked like the woman was its caretaker, not its owner. It was incredible, and I don’t use the word “incredible” lightly.

Once my eye caught it, my eyes were caught. I stared like the moron I am from the first spotting- from maybe fifty feet out in the lot, until it rumbled its way into the store and past me. It was a wonderful day here to Austin- sunny and mild, and the clean sunlight sent cascades of sparkles off that shiny, pink fabric in hypnotic jumbles and swirls. By the time I managed to refocus my eyes I saw that the fifteen others around me were just getting their focus back as well.

“Holy shit,” remarked the elderly woman standing beside me said. Then she grabbed my arm and urged to me, “Please Mister, would you look to see if I’ve got one of those?”

I did, she didn’t. I told her, “No Darling, but I do like your belly piercing. Is that a real diamond?”

Then all the other women were getting opinions from me. I guess I looked like an expert on the subject. So after a few minutes of playing FDA inspector and passing judgment, someone suggested to me, “You outta tell that woman she’s packin. It would only be right.”

I went to the car and wedged my groceries to the back seat, got myself seated- a job into its ownself, started the car, and then started to thinking. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but terribler in the wrong hands. Terrible-more?

My first actual thought was if steroids could possibly be the root cause behind this woman’s loaded crotch. But her muscles didn’t match steroid rage, so I discounted that. I moved on to more profitable thinking and I wondered, “If a woman has a world class camel toe, should you say something to her about it?”

A very good question, Mr. Johnson. Now, don’t shut down on me because I’m inappropriate. Go with me on this for just one more minute. I mean, think about this with me. Follow my logic tree.

OK. Supposition Number 1: the woman either knows that she’s got a double-wide flap of woman meat bulging from her crotchie, or not. Right? She either knows or doesn’t know.

Supposition Number 2: if she knows, she is proud, and: A. she wants you to look and compliment her, or: B. she’s trolling for a man that likes meaty-crotched ladies, in which case she wants you to comment.

Supposition Number 3: if she is totally unaware that she could play a stunt double for the butcher shop in the movie Rocky, then wouldn’t she want someone, like me, to let her know? Kind of like that dealie where you walk up to a stranger and say, “Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but you’ve got a Caesar salad stuck in your teeth.”

You know, that kind of situation.

So I’m thinking that maybe someone does need to man-up here and talk to the lady and since I never shirk responsibility, I’ve got a man’s job to do. I turned the Ferrari engine off, endured the exercise that is getting out of the little car, and proceeded inside the store. I’m looking for the woman and realize all I need to do is follow the trail of glazed-over eyes.

I find the lady over to produce, inspecting a pair of the giant avocados that were on special at two for $1.00, a great price. Ever a man with a quick wit and light tongue I told her, “Don’t try to smuggle those out of here in your pants. That camel toe of yours will kick some avocado ass and you’ll be scooping your guacamole from a V-necked bowl.”

Now look. How much more clever and appropriate could a remark have been? I didn’t say, “Holy shit lady, how many days can your camel go between drinks,” or, “Better build a corral for that thing,” or something rude. I didn’t ask her if she was ashamed of herself for keeping the poor camel cooped up, and I for sure didn’t say, “Hey lady, all I see are his feet. Where’s the rest of your camel?” Nope, I didn’t do any of that rude shit. I tastefully let her know that I knew and let the chips fall where the fell.

Anyway, this lady got a funny look to her face, smashed the avocados in my face, slapped me (hard) on each avocado-slathered cheek, and stormed-off to find the manager.

Having experience in similar situations, I stood where I was to wait for the store manager rather than run from the store. I have found store managers to be much better listeners than the police.

So I wait for like a minute, maybe less, for lady and manager to arrive. I think Sprouts has excellent customer service. That circumstance would take at least three minutes if we were at any regular grocery store store. The lady tells the manager, a sturdy man of maybe thirty-five, her side of the story, shows the camel to to him after he asked to see the evidence, and then she slaps me again for good measure.

The manager gives me the usual look I get from retail managers in these situations, turned to the lady and says, “Thank you, Miss. Give me your name and contact information. I will take a report and handle things from here.”

So, she thanks him, gives him her info, slaps me one more time for good luck, and storms off. “You,” he says as he points a stiffened index finger in my chest, “to my office.”

We get to his office and he closes the door, points to a chair in front of his desk, and says, “Sit.” He sits down behind the desk, takes a deep breath and opens the drawer of the desk to pull out a pint bottle of Hornitos.

“Here, you first. Your exposure was far longer than mine.” He offered the bottle to me for a slug.

I obliged and passed it back and he guzzled a shot from the little bottle of tequila. He swallowed the booze with a grimace, looked first to the ceiling and then he crossed himself in classic Catholic method. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he almost whimpered. “I wanted to touch that thing so bad I was shaking. I had the image of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”

“I understand, young man, but that’s a forbidden fruit,” I counseled. “Men have got to be strong in the face of these new trends in womens sportswear.” I think I’m quite a good role model for this younger set.

“I’m not calling the police or anything, but we need to stay in here until she has left the parking lot.” Then he lifted his phone and had someone bring us some limes. “We need a drink.”

A young woman of maybe nineteen came in with the limes and said, “Better call the produce distributor, Harry. We’re almost out of avocados.”

As I was driving home, recounting the incident, I decided that my logic tree needs an arborist.

Carta Blanca beer builds strong boners. Manana, y’all.

Read At Your Own Risk; ADHD At Work

Tuesday, March 1st, 2011

 

So. The following are the first 5,800 words of the epistle I wrote Sunday when I was so fritzed. I am publishing it unedited so you can witness the unraveling synapses of an ADHD-addled brain. I cut it off before the really crazy parts because I said some things in anger that I didn’t mean. Check this shit out.

So. What a weekend. SAC Ellen and I went to this really fun party Saturday night called a “Creative Party”. Artsy-fartsy persons of many ilks partied for awhile, while doing arts and crafts stuff, if desired. To finish the party, there was a performance period.

People sang and read and showed artworks of the visual kind, and danced. And stuff. SAC Ellen secured us an invitation so that I could read some of my new book to an audience. I discovered this fact ONLY as we were arriving at the lovely home of the party’s sponsors.

Wait. What do you call the persons responsible for holding a party? Party throwers? Party givers?

For the last several weeks before Creative Party night, I had been bitching to myself about, as stated by me to my therapist in Saturday morning’s “regular” psycho therapy session, “I don’t have any earthly idea why I agreed to go to this silly fucking party dealie.”

“Well, Mooner,” began Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my ex-wife and therapist, “This is the second time you have mentioned this today and maybe the fiftieth in a couple weeks. Maybe this is an issue we should investigate more deeply.”

“Wait a minute, this is the first time today I brought the subject up,” I told her. “Stop exaggerating.”

This got me the “Mooner is a moron and I’m his long-suffering therapist” look, and a reminder that, “You brought it up not thirty minutes ago in your ‘special’ therapy session.”

“I did not,” my best retort to all of this looking and reminding. “You make me very uncomfortable when you do that to me– that silly look shit with a near scold chaser.”

Sammie went all calm and shit and looked in my eyes. “Oh, for the love of God, Mooner. Are you developing early onset dementia to play ball with your ADHD and obsessive-compulsive disorders?”

Then it was my turn to give my best “who’s the moron here?” look to the good doctor. “I didn’t say I didn’t have any idea why I agreed to go to the party earlier. Since my special session therapies are dealing with my whole uncontrolled sexual fantasies thingie, I was addressing this party with those perspectives in mind.”

Then I got the “why me, why-the-fuck-me?” look. “OK, mister smart guy. Exactly what would be the sexual aspects of your having said, “I’ve got to go to that stupid party tonight.”

“Well,” my opening gambit, “think of it this way. You know how artsy women and me are either like oil and water, or we’re like I’m the flypaper and they’re the fly. Within fifteen minutes we’re either engaged in a fistfight or SAC Ellen will have her badge and matte-finished Glock 9mm shoved in the lady’s face because she’s making a move on me. Either way, arty women and I are a combustible mix.”

“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner, you need to grow up.”

Ugh, I’m digressing into Nowhereland. Let’s all go back to the car Saturday night.

I was trying to say that after weeks of thinking I was going to a really stupid party just to be supportive of SAC Ellen [and, admittedly in hopes of realigning myself to score some serious poontang], I discovered, arriving at our party sponsors’ home, that SAC Ellen was doing this for me.

“Wait,” I said. “You’re doing this for me?”

“Why would I be attending a creative party where you are the participant, for myself, Mooner? What would I do to show my creativity, reenact our first meeting and stun you into petrified rock, then arrest you?”

Then she laughed. “Or maybe I could do a dramatic reading of the Miranda…. ‘You have the right to remain silent, motherfucker, and if you say one word I’ll drill you.’”

More laughing, hers plus mine this time.

I’m thinking I’m touched that she is doing this for me, she wants to help me promote my book. I’m winding up to say thanks in just the right way when she says, “Mooner, sweetie, I can’t tell you what it means to me to think that you were doing this for me.”

She reached across the center console of the GTO and squeezed my hand. “And you didn’t bitch about it a single time. You really are getting better.”

Now most of you, my sane readers, are saying to yourselves, “Mooner, you blind-assed lucky sumbitch.” Right? You are thinking how fate handed me a pitcher of lemonade.

And if I had managed to keep my big mouth shut, I’d have enjoyed a long, deep pull of freshly-squeezed lemons. I didn’t. I missed lemonade time because I said, “Well, I have been bitching about this party in therapy ever since I agreed to go.”

I did, however, enjoy the party. Even in her anger at me, SAC Ellen read most of a chapter of my new book to the gathered artsy-fartsters. My ADHD prevents me from reading out loud with comprehensiveness, so SAC Ellen read for me. They laughed, the desired response, and often [a bonus], and I somehow managed to avoid both fistfights and over-amorous artsy ladies.

I also avoided sex, a not desired response.

“You can drop me off at my place,” were my instructions when I started the car after the party.

Why am I crazy? Bad question. I know why, I’ve got ADHD, that’s why. I mean why was I blessed with ADHD and why was I so fucking blessed? My ADHD has got ADHD. My distractions are distracted.

Anytime someone starts on me with that “it’s all God’s will and He is a benevolent God” crap, I want to puke. A god who cared that much would not have inflicted the ADHD on his look-alikes.

Which brings up another point. Why is it that some people can say that they can “tell” things about a person just by looking at that person. I hate when a guy says, “Oh, he’s gay. I can tell just by looking at him.”

I really hate that shit. I think that maybe I’m a hater myself and not a peace-loving lover of stuff. Now my brain hurts. I wish my pecker hurt from too much sexing. My ego hurts, but not my pecker.

*******************

Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry, Prick; I R Better

Tuesday, March 1st, 2011

 

So. Thanks for all the cards and letters wishing me well and to get better soon. I’ve been all fucked up and crazy for a week or so, and it culminated with a major brain fritz yesterday.

“Would you like a side of fried synapses with your scrambled brains, Sir?”

I allowed myself to become overwhelmed and I didn’t realize what was happening. I think what snapped me out of it was reading that ADHD is not a legitimate malady. There was an article by some psychiatrist who stated that Attention Deficit Disorders are nothing more than simple lazinesses. ADHD is simply the manifestations of a lazy mind and not a mental disorder.

That’s right folks, I’m lazy. I’m not crazy, I’m lazy.

OMFG!!! I’m not really crazy, I’m just lazy.

OK, so you know me and the dictionary, we are quite intimate friends. Lovers even. Leticia Browningwell was a teacher/tormentor of Streaker Jones and my young self with her Baptist-slanted course plans back to junior high school. Her attempts to turn eighth grade into an extended version of Vacation Bible School caused the two of us boys to become excellent looker-uppers of actual definitions of words.

That crazy old windbag would twist every lecture into a Sunday School lesson and make definitions of words to suit her pastoral manipulations. Streaker Jones and I would call her on things by quoting from the big Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary that always sat on a pedestal in the corner of the classroom back to junior high.

Having been accused of being lazy by Mrs. Browningwell on many occasions as a kid, I can still quote you Webster’s first definition of “lazy” by heart. “Disinclined to activity or exertion.”

Or in other words, a lazy person is a person who chooses to avoid activity. That, folks, does not describe a single sufferer of the ADHD whom I have ever met. (that is a “whom” situation from the verbiage position, right?)

I have met many sufferers of ADHD and ADD who can’t accomplish completed tasks. I have met sufferers who jump from task to task and half-ass all of them. My very own grandfather, Gram’s dearly departed husband, couldn’t carry a conversational subject for a minute before he was changing subjects.

I think Grandaddy had the same version of ADHD as I have, and that he is my direct link to the malady. He was the hardest working man I ever met. He was always working on something or doing something. He was the polar opposite of the definition of the word lazy.

Even though I have managed to organize much of the hyperactivity part out of my illness, I’m still quite active and almost continually I am exerting at something. OK, wait. Do you exert at things, or do you exert things or maybe do you have things that exert you?

Whateverthefuck, I’m not a constant exerter like my grandfather, but I’m a close second place.

However, I would like to embrace the part of that stupid doctor’s ideas that says I’m not crazy. If I’m not crazy, it’s a whole new world out there. But once again, Mr. Webster foils a hypothesis. I give you the following few definitions of the word “crazy”:

  1. Bizarre.
  2. Brain-sick.
  3. Deranged or possibly dangerous.
  4. Intensely enthusiastic or engaged.
  5. Senseless or impracticable.
  6. Unusual random behaviors.
  7. Infatuated with the imaginary.

Now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but my statistics course in college taught me that a 100% result has a high statistical accuracy. I’m sort of thinking that if I resemble sever-out-of-seven definitions of crazy, there might exist, at least the slight chance that I AM crazy.

You might ask, and rightly so, “Mooner, my man. How can you feel better by proving that you are crazy when you have been called simply lazy?”

Because it explains things. I’m a person who is far better settled with knowing the truth, even if the truth is unsettling. If I acted crazy and did crazy shit and I wasn’t crazy– how fucking crazy would that be?

What if my life was a series of purposeful choosings to do stupid shit, and not the random fuckups of a man attempting to always do the right thing(s).

What if I have always thought I was making good decisions when actually I was avoiding making the right decisions because I’m lazy. What if I have the same insane revisionist sense of history as Governor Perry?

I’ll stop now because this whole thing is getting out of control and I’m just too lazy to keep going. Let me summarize and say this. I feel better, I have regained my sense of self and I have renewed faith in man.

So, drink Carta Blanca beer and FUCK PRICK PERRY!!!

Manana, y’all.